‘Deal.’
‘And Cosima …?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Ben says confidently. ‘I’ve had a talk with her. She’s agreed to drop the Oblivion Oil bullshit if she can leave her school and go to the sixth-form college in Tipworth for her final year, which if you think about it …’
Serena finishes his sentence.
‘… works out very well for you,’ she says.
He smiles.
‘Quite. A daughter at state school. Plays well with the voters and saves us a tonne of money, so win-win. We just need to keep the Oblivion Oil stuff out of the papers, which I think I’ve managed to do. I got the lawyers on it, threatening an injunction – think of the children, they never asked for a public life, all that. So far, the editors have played ball.’
‘Is she alright? Cosima? I worry we’ve let her down.’
Ben takes her hand in his.
‘She’ll be fine. It’s standard teenage rebellion. She’s a good girl, really.’
Serena doesn’t tell him she went to see Cosima in Cambridge. Some protective instinct prevents her from doing so. That was between her and Cosima, no one else. In time, if they make enough amends, then maybe their daughter will come back to them.
‘I hope so,’ Serena says. ‘I hope you’re right.’ She reaches out and strokes the side of his face.
That’s how it’s all agreed between them. They know each other so well, you see. They know each other’s flaws and each other’s potency; they know the depths of their shared ambition and their joint belief intheir own exceptionalism. They understand each other’s wickedness in a way no one else can, and what is this if not a kind of love? Whatever damage they wreak on each other, it will always be part of the game they play. And if the pain never fully heals, doesn’t its familiarity feel a lot like love?
XIX.
Richard
IT’S THE NIGHT OF THEWitnesssummer party and every right-winger and his Labrador is on their way. TheWitnessis a capital-C Conservative weekly periodical with pen-and-ink cartoons on the front cover and much intellectual preening from vituperative columnists on the inside pages. Edward Buller used to be the editor and, in the early 2000s, had infamously published an editorial claiming that all men should be allowed multiple wives, ‘like the harems of ancient times where concubines were rightly kept secluded from the gaze of other men’. Buller went on to write, with his usual incendiary flair, that this was ‘quite possibly one of the only truly civilised concepts we can thank the Muslims for’. The offices of theWitnesswere promptly firebombed and Buller was denounced by several imams and the Muslim Council of Britain. He apologised, promised ‘to reflect, listen and learn’ and was subsequently photographed meeting various interfaith religious leaders, after which everyone seemed to forget about it.
Different times, Richard supposes, as he strides up the Georgian London street where theWitnesshas its offices. An arch of fake, pastel-hued flowers announces the entrance and as he walks by, a news photographer he vaguely recognises from theMailshouts after him.
‘Oi, Richard! How’s the campaign going?’
Richard ignores him and gives his name to a young blonde woman with a clipboard. In truth, the campaign is going pretty well. Ben is ahead of Graham Bunn in the polls. The two of them are due to go head to head in a televised debate next week and Richard has beenroped in to help with prepping. Ben wants him to put together briefing documents on the top six issues he thinks they’ll be pressed on: benefits, the cost-of-living crisis, tax cuts, the NHS, pensions and that staunch Tory perennial: should we build on the green belt? Meanwhile, Jarvis is coaching Ben on ‘camera presence’, whatever that means. And as for Martin? He’s disappeared. Richard hasn’t seen him since their itsu sushi summit. He isn’t sure if it’s because Martin is deliberately making himself scarce, or because Ben has decided to sideline him. Either way, it’s probably for the best, given what Richard is about to do.
He called Hannah in the end. Asked her to meet for a drink. She was surprisingly amenable to the idea. They went to a favourite pub, around the corner from what had been their marital home. He felt a rush of calm as soon as she walked through the door, heaving a large black wheeled suitcase behind her. She was wearing what looked like a giant grey scarf but as she sat next to him at the bar and began to unwind it, the scarf transformed itself into a sort of cape and then, when it emerged there were sleeves, he realised it was a coat of such capacious proportions you could probably have hidden Edward Buller’s harem in the pockets.
‘Hello, Richard,’ she said with a frown.
‘I got you your usual.’
He slid the double gin and tonic across to her.
‘Thanks.’
She drank half of it down then licked her lips, visibly suppressing a burp. God, he missed her.
‘So.’ Hannah stared at him with her customary piercing scrutiny. ‘How are you?’
‘Ah, not bad,’ he said. ‘You know. It is what it is.’
He’d read that on a fridge magnet once.
‘You look better than I thought you would,’ she said.
It wasn’t uttered accusingly, simply as a statement of fact.
